


Great Sweater, Greg!

by BabalooBlue, Brighid45



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Holidays, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 11:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17600366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: Who would have thought one small package held so much trouble? A fun story, nothing serious. Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

The cause of future trouble arrived in early December, an innocent-looking parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper and addressed to House in his mother's small and precise handwriting. His birthday was still a while off and besides, she hadn't sent him anything other than a card - usually with a tenner tucked inside - in years. He had stared at it with some apprehension for a while, not sure what to do. In the end, he decided there was nothing to be gained by letting it sit on the coffee table for much longer.

Inside the packing paper was a layer of thin, white tissue. Whatever it contained was soft and clearly needed to be protected. On top lay a card.

_Dear Gregory,_

_Your great-aunt Mabel sadly passed away a few weeks ago. As you know, she loved to knit and was still working on a project until the day before she passed. You probably remember all the lovely things she made for you when you were little._

_This is the last piece she completed, I thought you might want to have it. I think it should fit._

_Love,_

_Mom_

Damn, not another scarf! House vividly remembered wearing handmade scarves as a boy, and all of them were blindingly colorful and scratchy like hell. He also dimly recalled Aunt Mabel. She was already old when he was small, so she must have been ancient when she finally died. He had a mental image of the old bat with her knitting needles clutched in her claw-like hands at the end, refusing to give in to death. Well, he couldn't blame her for that at least.

With considerable trepidation, he pushed open the tissue paper and had to actually squint to take in all the colors blaring up at him from the depths of the package. "Oh  _god_ ," he groaned softly. "Christ on a crutch…"

A sweater. And not just any sweater, but a holiday themed one. It took him a moment to make sense of what he was seeing; he knew a real worry that his retinas would never be the same. Once he was able to comprehend the composition, a strong sense of disbelief coupled with revulsion led him to drop the whole mess on the nearest flat surface - in this case, the coffee table.

He would have to get rid of it, and fast.

* * *

 

For James, things had started with Sandy's stupid bake sale.

To be fair, he didn't think it was stupid at the time. It was just another thing on his already pretty full plate. He didn't much care for Christmas (or Hanukkah either, for that matter), but as head of oncology he could hardly decline to participate in something intended to raise funds for his own department.

"You're a pushover." House spoke from the safety of one of James's recliners.

"That didn't come out quite right. You were going to say,  _you're a responsible adult, James_."

House just snorted. James added a bit more vanilla to the bowl and glanced at the mess on his kitchen table. He sighed. It didn't exactly look like any responsible adult lived here at the moment. "I could hardly say no to something that's going to raise money for my own department." So he had told Sandy she could put him down for a batch of cookies.

"Of course you can. I've been doing it for years. When have you last seen me at a hospital fundraiser?"

"Your refusal to act like an adult doesn't have to be my role model." James started to cream the butter and sugar. This was a tried and tested recipe, and he should be finished in no time. Then he just needed to decorate the cookies, and they would be ready for the sale tomorrow.

"My choice not to get guilt-tripped into doing something I don't want to do, you mean." The phone rang. House craned his neck and checked the display. "Call for you."

"Could you-?"

"Nope."

James gritted his teeth. He set the bowl aside and wiped his hands on a paper towel as he headed for the phone. Unusual to have a call come in on the landline… "Doctor Wilson speaking." He listened to the agitated voice on the other end and sorted out the message. "Okay...okay...we expected something like this to happen, but not quite so soon. I'll be right there."

And that was how he ended up leaving House in charge of finishing the cookies. Not his smartest idea, but his only option at the time. He knew he would be with his patient for at least a few hours. And he would be exhausted afterwards.

"Please take this seriously, House. No jokes. This is important. People will know this is my contribution to the bake sale."

House had put his hand where most people have a heart. "I'll finish this, don't you worry. Go, play doctor."

James gave House a long look, suspicious at this sudden willingness to help out. "I'm not kidding. We need all the funding we can get."

"Yeah yeah. Get out. Tempus fugit." House flapped a hand at him and levered his lean form out of the recliner. On a sense of misgiving, James grabbed his coat and turned away. He paused in the doorway.

"Seriously-"

" _Out!_ " House already had on the apron. James sighed and shut the door behind him.

He returned home several hours later, exhausted, hungry and ready to forget his time at the patient's bedside. As he fitted his key in the door he could smell the delightful fragrance of gingerbread, a blend of spices, vanilla and caramelized sugar that made his empty belly growl. Maybe he could sneak a cookie and say it had broken or gotten burned . . .

House had anticipated his intent. There was no sign of him, but a plate with several cookies sat on the counter, along with a shot of what appeared to be bourbon. And they weren't culls either. No, they were nicely decorated with fine, colorful lines. James munched the first tree cookie while he toed off his shoes and put them by the door. A star-shaped cookie disappeared when he went to hang his coat in the hall.

They were good-light and tender, but sturdy enough to hold together. And they looked great. He took a sip of bourbon, and then he ate a gingerbread man with what appeared to be a fedora on his head and a green tie around his neck. House had done a good job. Just to make sure, James lifted the lid of the big tin sitting prominently on the kitchen table. Yup, everything looked okay. More than okay, in fact. House did have a knack for this. The little knot of apprehension deep inside James loosened and faded away. His contribution to the sale would be on time, and probably popular as well. He snagged one more cookie on the way to his bedroom, tired but satisfied, and fell asleep quickly once he slid between the sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

He should have known better.

The cake sale was a success. A resounding one, even. And not least due to House's creations, as James learned a couple of days later. His first clue came from Chase, who passed him in the hallway with a nod, a thumbs-up and a wide grin. James watched him stride away, puzzled at this uncharacteristic cheerfulness. None of House's fellows even liked the Christmas season, so where had that moment come from? He shrugged and continued on to his office, to find Sandy absent. In fact, she was gone most of the morning, to appear once with his mail. She dropped it on his desk, turned tail and almost ran out into the hallway. James stared after her, confused. He was tempted to smell his armpits. What the hell was wrong with people today?

It was Cuddy who finally made him see the light.

" _What on earth did you think you were doing?!_ " She burst into his office without as much as a knock. She was clearly upset about something.

"What's going on?" James asked and put down his pen. He would have to continue his charting later.

"That's what I want  _you_ to tell  _me_!" She was steaming, her jaw jutted out in that aggressive way she always displayed when she was about to lower the boom on someone. "I don't know what you think you're doing, making cookies like those-those-" She spluttered for a moment. "This hospital has a reputation to consider and you'd do well to remember it when you and House come up with your juvenile practical jokes!"

A cold chill crawled down the length of his spine. "P-practical joke?"

"Oh, don't act as if you don't know what I'm talking about!" James wished she would sit down instead of pacing in front of his desk.

"I swear, I know nothing about whatever happened." He put his hands up. "Honestly."

Cuddy stopped right in front of him. "It was your cookie tin. Your name was on it. And people kept asking for more of ' _Doctor Wilson's fancy cookies'_. You cannot claim you had nothing to do with this."

James knew perfectly well what had happened-House had pulled a fast one. "It was House," he finally said.

Cuddy glared at him. "It was both of you!"

"No-I-I-I got a call from the service, one of my patients-I asked House-" He rubbed his neck and swallowed. "I  _had_  to ask him, it was that or nothing would have gotten done!"

"And you  _trusted_  him?" Cuddy folded her arms. "Seriously, that's the best excuse you can come up with?"

"It's not an excuse, it's the truth!" James snapped. "Check the service log, the call's on there! And my notes are in the chart, signed and dated!"

"You know what . . . " Cuddy lowered her brows and gave him what was clearly meant to be an intimidating glare. "I really don't care. You sold those-those PORN cookies in  _my_ hospital! I know you put in for leave next week, but that's canceled now. You're attending the Winter Gala fundraiser on Friday. Both of you." She made for the door, opened it, and turned to hurl one more threat at him. "Don't even think about skipping out."

"How am I supposed to force House to come to something like that?" James knew he was close to whining, but couldn't help it. "He'll never go!"

Cuddy offered a thin smile. "Not. My. Problem." She exited the office and pulled the door shut behind her. James winced at the slam. He listened to the sharp click of her heels as she stormed down the corridor, and ran a hand over his face.

_Porn_ cookies!

"Dammit," he muttered. This was a pretty kettle of fish all right, and House had cooked it up himself. Maybe it was time to make him eat a big bowl of his own bad-boy chowder.

With his well-deserved time off now only a distant dream and still seething about the dressing down he had received from Cuddy, James decided to stop at House's place after work. Since House had a case, he would not be coming home until very late or not at all. It was perfect timing as it gave him the opportunity to snoop a little and figure out what he wanted to do about this embarrassing situation. In other words, he wanted revenge, and scoping out House's place would give him a chance to enact it.

"Revenge for a situation I didn't create," he said under his breath as he unlocked House's door.

221-B looked much like it always did. James wasn't sure what he had been hoping to find, but after half an hour of poking around and finding nothing more than the usual mess, he had to admit defeat. The place was clear.

On a last faint hope, he checked the bedroom. It was a long shot, but it was also better not to underestimate the man's deviousness, he knew that from long acquaintance. But the bedroom was as free of any incriminating evidence as the rest of the place. After ten minutes James gave up. He turned to exit the room. As he did so, his glance swept over the trash can by the bed. He'd emptied it himself a couple of weeks ago during a Sunday night visit for football and pizza, but now it was half-full. James paused. What the heck was in there? Cautiously he approached the bedside, turned on the light and peered down into the can. A layer of wadded-up tissue paper seemed to cover something; a little corner of bright color stuck up at the back, almost hidden in shadow.

"What's this?" He reached down, then drew his hand back. Quickly he checked for wires or some other kind of booby trap. It was pure paranoia, but he had good reason to be cautious, based on past adventures. He could find nothing however, so at last he gathered his courage and gently tugged on the little corner. It resisted for a few seconds; then something emerged from the layer of paper. James gently gathered it up. For a moment, he stood there and just stared. He couldn't quite comprehend what it was that he held in his hands. This was not what he had expected. Drugs, porn, contraband, even ransom notes - none of that would've surprised him in House's place. But this most certainly did.

It was by far the ugliest sweater he had ever had the misfortune to lay his eyes on. The background was a blinding lime green.  _Stoplights would be jealous_  was his first thought. In the center of the sweater, three blobs of white stacked on top of each other were probably meant to represent a snowman. There were two shiny black button eyes on the top blob, as well as a dayglo-orange triangle between them that he took to be a carrot nose. Underneath the features, someone had stitched a wavering curve for a smiling mouth. The expression was creepy as hell-no doubt it was intended to be jolly, but it looked as if the soul of an ax murderer had been transplanted into the snowman. James blinked, then decided to look at other parts of the sweater. That was a mistake. Behind the snow creature hung what appeared to be a slightly misshapen disco ball made with silver-glitter yarn. A moon? A star? Spaceship? It was impossible to tell. It was placed next to a herd of mutant candy canes and dots of sparkly light. On the other side, a skinny Christmas tree covered with splatters of color leaned toward the snowman; it almost appeared to be flying through the air. The whole thing was a nightmare . . . and it had been given to House, that much was clear. On a sudden impulse, James set the sweater aside and stuck his hand in the trash can, scrabbling through the papers. His efforts were rewarded quickly. In triumph, he pulled free a crumpled note, smoothed it out and read it.

"Yes . . ." His smile widened when he saw the signature at the end. "Oh  _yessss_  . . ."

Of course, he should have known that things wouldn't be this easy. They never were where House was concerned.


	3. Chapter 3

When James came into work the following day everyone, from the janitor putting up a Christmas tree in the lobby to the nurses, seemed to be smirking or giggling as he passed. He kept his head down and continued on his way.

He was about to open the door to his office when a wave of laughter greeted him from House's conference area. He gritted his teeth, hung up his coat and put his briefcase on his desk. The laughter continued in fits and starts for the next half hour.

Eventually, he gave up trying to concentrate and marched next door.

House's team was gathered in the outer office around a table full of files, coffee mugs and something else that seemed to hold everyone's attention. James paused for a moment, certain he hadn't been spotted yet, and observed.

Everyone had their cell phones out and was taking photos of something in the middle of the table. From his vantage point, he couldn't see what it was, but it appeared to be the source of all this hilarity. James knew the cookies were the reason for Cuddy's outrage, and he had to find out for himself just what House had done to them - but still he wavered, unwilling to wade into the floodwaters . . . until House passed by him, opened the door, and paused. "Hey," he said cheerfully. "What's better for breakfast than cookies to go with your coffee? Come on in!"

That decided him. James took a breath and followed House into the office.

The first thing he saw was the big holiday platter loaded with gingerbread. It took a second for the full import to sink in. Then his eyes widened. "Oh fuck," he whispered. "Oh  _fuck_  . . ."

Chase waved a half-eaten cookie at him. "Have a seat. There's plenty here." He smirked, blue eyes twinkling. House shook his head as he limped over to the coffeemaker. Wilson swallowed on a dry throat.

"These-these really didn't go out to the bake sale?" He knew it was a stupid question, but he couldn't help asking, hoping beyond hope Cuddy had gotten angry over something else.

"Of course  _these_ didn't go to the bake sale." House poured coffee into two mugs and handed him one. "That was the other batch."

James felt his head nod. He couldn't stop it, it just happened. He reached out, pulled a chair away from the table, and sank into it. Thirteen glanced at him. A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. Without speaking she took a cookie and offered it to James. He accepted it and held it up. A gingerbread man stared back at him. There was no doubt it was a gingerbread  _man_. It was anatomically correct. For a split second, he wondered how House could have created this without special equipment, the decorations were that detailed. Then it hit him.

"This… this guy… gingerbread man… he's got an erection!"

Foreman bit his lip and pushed another cookie over to James. "I think he was next to this one in the tin. That would explain things."

James stared in disbelief at a lavishly decorated gingerbread woman. "She . . . she has a whip in her hand." And what could only be called a come-hither look in her little outline eyes.

Wordlessly Taub held up another cookie. This one was clearly the partner to the mistress with the whip. He wore black leather restraints studded with silver nonpareils, and a Boston red hot over his mouth. Wilson stared at it, then shot a glare at House, who offered a cheeky little smile before he took a mouthful of coffee. It was then James knew he wanted-no,  _needed_  vengeance. His trust had been broken, and not for the first time. He ignored the little voice at the back of his mind that whispered he should have known better. With as much dignity as he could muster, he rose, straightened his tie, and faced House.

"Thanks for helping me out." He kept his tone quiet, neutral. "I really appreciate it." With that he left the office, ignoring the chuckles and murmured comments. He had caught a glimpse of House's expression as he left. Though he hid it well, James knew his tells by now. Anxiety had replaced amusement.  _I give him half an hour,_  he thought as he entered his own office. He closed the door behind him quietly, knowing House was waiting for a slam.

Sure enough, twenty-eight minutes later House sauntered in. Wordlessly he placed a couple of cookies on James's desk blotter, then took a seat in one of the visitors chairs. "You didn't get any with your coffee."

James didn't look up from his file. "No thanks."

"Now now, don't be that way." House's voice held a wheedling tone. "They're just innocent little cookies, Jimmy. Most of them have passed out of people's digestive systems by now."

"There's a charming image." James finished the file, set it aside, took another one from the pile and opened it. Silence fell. House fidgeted with his cane a bit.

"Cuddy was pretty mad, huh."

"It doesn't matter."

House rolled his eyes. "She came down on you like a ton of bricks." James said nothing. "Come on, she'll get over it." Another silence. "So I owe you a beer and a burger or something if you want payback."

At that, James looked up. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, still silent. House watched him, his vivid gaze unwavering.

"You don't need to worry about what you owe me."

Something like fear passed over House's features. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"You know, you might not have work to do but I've got a big take-in today as well as rounds." And James went back to his files.

"I see," House said after a few moments. "This is your big chance to be a passive-aggressive pussy and feel justified about it." He got to his feet. "Fine, go ahead. I can handle whatever you throw at me."

James allowed himself a slight smile. House paused by the door. He stared at James. "Dammit, you're not supposed to be  _enjoying_  this." He sounded nervous under the harsh accusatory tone. Then he was gone, headed for his own office as if pursued by demons. James watched him go, and got up to close the door. He returned to his desk, sat and took a cookie. It was the bondage gingerbread man. James looked at it, then bit off the head. Munching, he picked up his pen and began to make notes in the current file. It wouldn't be long until House's team would be sent out to run tests or do some other scut work and House would be distracted. He was in no rush. Even if House managed to solve his case by the end of the day - which was unlikely, considering he would be preoccupied and worried about what James would be up to - it would give him enough time to set things in motion without House noticing.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been several days, and nothing had happened. At least nothing House could detect.

Wilson could hold a grudge for donkey's years. He also was a master of the long con, House had no problem admitting that as long as it wasn't to Wilson's face. But usually, by now he would at least have an idea of what the schemer was up to. Not this time, though. There was no unusual activity in the oncology department, no strange comings or goings, and Wilson appeared to be following his normal routine. Of course, he couldn't keep an eye on his friend 24/7, but a man who didn't go home before 10 pm most days and came to work looking fresh as a daisy at 8 am the following morning was unlikely to be up to much mischief in the hours in between. And that worried House.

The cookies had disappeared from the office by the end of the first day, presumably eaten by the team since they'd had no time for lunch or other breaks while dealing with their idiotic current patient. Of course, that was a dangerous presumption to make given the situation, but House couldn't find any evidence that Wilson had taken them. It made him uneasy, though. This wasn't all-out war, not yet-but he was ready for incoming missiles. The question was when they'd land.

By the third day, House was finding it hard to concentrate. He kept waiting for something to happen, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Of course, Wilson was as good as a woman at long silences, but this was different. The only phrase that kept coming to mind was 'twenty minute warning'. And that was not a good thing at all, to say the very least.

On the fifth day, House threw caution to the winds and snuck into Wilson's office. He searched desk drawers, shelves, the trash-but nothing came to light. No notes, memos, not even hidden information in files. House leaned on a corner of the desk, winded and desperate, to look up when Wilson spoke from the doorway.

"Strange as it may seem, I don't leave clues scattered around my office for your perusal. Nor do I hide them in my briefcase."

"So you admit something's going on!" House stood up straight. "I knew it!"

"Am I? Or," Wilson hesitated, "am I just playing to your natural paranoia? You'd expect me to enact some kind of vengeance because that's what you would do."

"Oh come on," House snapped. "You've paid me back any number of times in the past!"

Wilson offered him a wintry smile. "Maybe I've decided to change my ways. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do." He stood aside and opened the door wide. Slowly House moved forward. As he passed Wilson he stopped.

"You're full of it. I know you're gunning for me. Just remember, I can outsmart you all of the time. I just choose not to because it's unfair to play games with unarmed opponents."

Wilson raised a brow. He moved aside and made a gesture toward the hall, the very essence of politeness. House muttered under his breath and limped out to his own office, aware of a bead of sweat sliding down his spine.

In a way, House was glad when things came to a head on Friday. Except that it was far worse than he had imagined.

They had put their patient on a new treatment, something of a Hail Mary pass, but they'd had no other option given the rapid decline of the man that morning. Now the whole team-House included-was back at the table after a long night, going through the files for the hundredth time, hoping to find confirmation that they had made the right decision.

This was the moment Wilson chose. Looking back, House knew he should have seen the signs far more clearly than he did.

He and the team were deep in a heated discussion about the disastrous results from the previous course of treatment, arguing over what they might try next, when Chase said "Why don't we take a break? None of this is helping us or the patient."

House turned away from the whiteboard to send him a withering look. Chase shrugged and sat back. "Just saying. Five minutes for coffee and a bathroom break would help."

"You've never suggested this before." House couldn't keep the suspicion out of his tone. Foreman tossed his pen on the table and stretched a little.

"It's still a good idea." He spoke just as someone came in-Wilson. For the first time in days, he looked almost cheerful. House's gut clenched on a sudden intuition.  _Here it comes_ , he thought.

"Hey House-sorry to interrupt, but the courier dropped this off at my office and it's addressed to you. My apologies for not getting it to you sooner." He held out a padded mailer. House didn't take it.

"We're kinda busy here. People dying and stuff, you know."

"It'll take all of two seconds to open." Chase got up and went over to the coffeemaker.

House knew that mailer was the last thing he wanted. But he didn't really have a choice if he didn't want to excite everyone else's suspicions. So he took the envelope Wilson still held out.

For a moment, he was tempted to throw it straight in the trash because its content was probably not pretty. But then he squeezed the mailer a little. There wasn't much resistance, so whatever was inside had to be soft. Quite soft, in fact.

_And probably very colorful_ , he thought as horrified recognition dawned on him.  _Damn the man_.

He tore open the glued end and saw his suspicions confirmed when he peeked inside the envelope. He closed it back up immediately and tossed it over his shoulder in the general direction of his desk.

"Nothing important." He winced a little at the fake heartiness in his tone, but he couldn't seem to change it. "Just some free condom samples. And you can keep your grubby hands off them! Time's a-wastin'. Get back to work!"

" _Hey_  . . ." Wilson looked puzzled. He moved past the team to House's desk, where the mailer lay on the floor. He picked it up. "House-this looks like some kind of present from your mom or something." He opened the envelope fully, reached in and withdrew the contents carefully, then unfolded the damn sweater. House closed his eyes, though he knew there was no way to avoid whatever happened next.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Wow_ ," Thirteen whispered. Chase whistled softly.

"That's a beauty, House."

"For the first time in years, I'm actually glad I celebrate Hanukkah." Taub's tone was hushed, almost reverent.

The amused reactions pushed House to throw caution to the winds. "You stole that thing," he snapped. "Wilson, you bastard! You broke into my place and  _stole_  it out of my trash!"

Foreman's eyes widened. "Wait-someone in your family sent this and you tossed it? Come on, House. That's cold, even for you."

House shot him a disgusted look. "And it doesn't interest you that this was taken out of my apartment. Nice ethics."

"Says the man who routinely makes us break into patients' houses," Taub pointed out. He looked disgustingly smug.

" _Hello!_  This is different! As in actual theft! Robbery!"

Big mistake. Wilson held up the sweater a bit higher. Now its full ugliness was on view for everyone to appreciate. Someone in his team gasped audibly.

"Hey, I didn't break in. I used my key." Wilson's tone was mild. "You know, the one you gave me to keep beer stocked for pizza nights."

"A technicality!" House heard his voice squeak a bit and winced.

"Your mother's note mentioned an Aunt Mabel who died recently. Apparently, she made this for you." Wilson paused. "I think you should wear it to the fundraiser tonight."

There was a brief silence. House saw the exchanged glances among his team and swallowed on a dry throat. To hide his dismay he glared at them, knowing it was a futile gesture.

"Damn. And I didn't buy a ticket," complained Foreman.

"Talk to Cuddy. She'll be happy to comp you, if you make it up with a few clinic hours." Wilson smiled. "I checked."

"Someone's gonna have to stay with the patient," Chase pointed out. "I did that last time, so it's my turn to go." He flashed a smile. "And I happen to have a ticket."

"Of course the weasel has a ticket. Anyway, who cares what Cuddy will do, she'll comp anyone if they're pretty enough. For the record," House looked over at Wilson who was still holding up that abomination like a damn victory flag. "I'm not going to any fundraiser, and I definitely won't be wearing  _that_!"

"Oh, I'm sure you will be doing both," Wilson replied with a grin on his face.

"Nope." House grabbed a random file off the table. "Got an appointment at 8. It's already paid for. And the lady would be very disappointed if you get my drift."

To his surprise, Wilson lowered the sweater and looked around the office with an inquiring expression. "That reminds me, in an odd sort of way-do you have any of those delicious cookies left?"

"Nope. The minions ate them all." House didn't even look up from the lab reports he was pretending to scan for information.

"Hey! We didn't get more than one that morning," protested Thirteen. "It tasted great, but they were all gone when we came back from the MRI." The rest of the team nodded in agreement.

That was impossible. He had kept two dozen aside. Even if they were lying and had all eaten two for breakfast, plus the three or four he had brought to Wilson's office, there should have been at least ten left. House couldn't let this egregious action go unnoticed.

"You didn't just steal this from my apartment, you also took those cookies from my office! I wonder what Cuddy will say when she hears that her head of oncology routinely breaks the law."

Wilson looked smug. "That's good coming from you. Now  _I_  wonder what your mother will say when she opens the package that's ready to go out with this evening's mail…"

Blackmail. That's what this was. Pure and simple. The only way to fight back was a bluff.

"Go ahead and send them. You think you know my mother, but you don't. She'd enjoy my creative efforts just as much as all those happy customers who bought your cookies." House kept his tone casual, though his palms were a little sweaty now.

"You know, that's entirely possible." Wilson tapped the top of his phone, just visible in his jacket pocket. "Which is why I promised her photos of you in the sweater. In memory of dear old Auntie Mabel, God rest her soul."

"Oh, shut up. You don't believe in God," House snapped. Damn, he'd have to think fast to get out of this one. "Fine, hand it over. One photo. Then it goes into the trash."

"Nope." Wilson was clearly enjoying this conversation. "You're wearing it to the fundraiser to show your love for your family."

"For fuck's sake, Wilson! She was a senile old bat!"

"Now now," Wilson shook an admonitory finger. "She did so much for you over her very long life. The least you can do is offer a little respect. You know if you don't, your mother will be very, very hurt. You will also be in such deep shit with Cuddy that it'll take you a century to dig yourself out from under the pile of clinic hours she'll dump on you."

And he would never, ever hear the end of it. There would be countless reproaches from both women, both verbal and silent, for months if not years on end. Besides, he had already lost count of the clinic work he owed Cuddy. Not that he cared, but a bigger number of hours owed gave her more leverage in future situations.

Discretion was the better part of valor. Time to give in, for now. That would offer him a chance to think up a way out of this mess. Slowly he held out his hand. "Gimme."

"I suggest you put it on later. We'll have some dinner in the cafeteria before we leave." Wilson's gaze held triumph as well as amusement. "And I'll keep it safe for now. Just in case something should happen to it."

"But you have to go home and change-"

"I brought my tux with me. Had to pick it up from the cleaners at lunchtime anyway."

And that was when House heard that little sound in his head: the quiet snap of his limits being broken. He stared at Wilson, careful to keep his expression neutral. "'kay." He caught a sidelong glance from Chase. Someone at least was aware the tide had turned, but he doubted his fellow would say anything. He'd probably make popcorn and sit ringside, enjoying every moment of the battle to come. "We have to finish this differential. I'll be at your office later on."

Wilson nodded, apparently satisfied. He folded up the sweater and tucked it under his arm. "Don't even think about trying to leave," he warned as he headed for the door.

"Yes dear." House watched him go, then sat down at the table and picked up the file. "Now, where were we?"

"That's it? You're not gonna fight back?" Chase sounded incredulous. Thirteen rolled her eyes but said nothing. Taub and Foreman had their files out, avoiding eye contact with anyone else.

" _Focus_ ," House growled at Chase. "We're nearly out of options here! What's left? Come on, give me some ideas!"


	6. Chapter 6

Two hours later, he sent the team on their way. His pain levels were elevated now; all he wanted was a shot of bourbon and some Vicodin to get him through the rest of the day and the evening ahead. He still hadn't come up with a way to turn this whole mess around on Wilson, but he was tired and hurting, and both conditions hampered his ability to process plans. He hadn't slept in about 36 hours and hadn't seen any proper food in a while either. But he would worry about that later. First things first. On a sigh, he limped over to his desk and opened the bottom drawer where he kept his liquor . . . only to find it gone. House stared at the empty space. He had just bought a replacement, hadn't even opened it yet . . . A surge of rage filled him. That rat bastard had taken his alcohol, knowing he needed it at the end of a day like this. "Son of a bitch," he growled, and in a sudden panic felt for his Vicodin. It was still there in his jacket pocket; he checked to make sure the pills were the right kind. Resigned, he shook out several and went over to the coffeemaker. Caffeine was a poor substitute, but at least it would help a bit with keeping him awake.

And then it dawned on him. He held his mug, struck by the obvious solution. For the first time in five days, a ray of hope entered the darkness. There was a way to handle this, and he would have come to it much sooner if he wasn't so strung out. But now . . . On a soft chuckle he popped the Vicodin and picked up the carafe. This would prove to be a very interesting evening. He'd make sure of it.

Once the meds and coffee had started to kick in, he went to his desk to retrieve an item needed for the evening ahead, grabbed his backpack and headed out. He walked straight past Wilson's office towards the elevator. Only when he was downstairs in the cafeteria, did he text Wilson to come meet him.

By the time the other man showed up, House had done in a pile of fries. "About time you got here," he informed his friend and took a gulp of his fountain drink. "I just finished the appetizer. You get to buy dinner."

"Nothing new in that." Wilson gave him an appraising stare. "We were supposed to meet in my office. You're not getting out of this, House."

"On the contrary, I know exactly what I'm getting  _into_. Hand me that eyesore of a sweater!"

Wilson's eyes widened a bit at this sudden display of enthusiasm. "You're-you're putting it on voluntarily?"

House belched loudly and struggled to his feet. "Why not?" He shrugged out of his jacket, dumped it on the bench, and began to unbutton his shirt.

"You don't-oh, whatever." Wilson put the sweater on the table and folded his arms. House pulled off his shirt and grabbed the sweater, stuffed his head through the neck opening, jammed his hands into the sleeves, and flapped them like some deranged bird.

"Look, Wilson! I can fly!"

"Jesus," Wilson muttered. House knew they were beginning to get interested looks from the other people in the cafeteria, something Wilson would find distasteful if not downright disgusting. He gave the other man a cheeky grin and pushed his arms fully through the sleeves.

"Damn, this thing is as scratchy as all the other crap sweaters that old biddy made for me over the years. I hate alpaca wool." He kept his voice nice and loud.

Wilson had definitely noticed the amused looks from people at nearby tables.

"Make mine a cheeseburger with double fries, by the way." House plopped onto the bench. Wilson sighed, checked his wallet and got up to place their order. House waited until he was halfway to the counter. "And don't forget my large coke!"

The food came to the table in short order. "You're damn lucky you have that fast metabolism." Wilson set down the tray, heaped with fries next to the burger. He went back for his own tray and transferred a stack of napkins in the middle of the table. "Keep your fingers clean on these, not the sweater."

"Killjoy." House reached for the ketchup, only to have Wilson snatch it away.

"Uh uh. No tomato stains."

House put a whiny tone in his voice. "Aw come on-fries with no ketchup? Holy shit, Wilson! I'm hungry!"

"Forget it." Wilson picked up his burger. "So how long have you been getting these gifts? Your mother said your aunt was close to one hundred when she passed."

House took an enormous bite of his burger. Chewing, he considered Wilson's conversational peace offering. He could use it to soften up his opponent. "First one came when I was four."

"So you've got a stack of sweaters in a closet somewhere?"

"Rotting in a landfill, you mean," House said around his mouthful of food. He swallowed and picked up his drink. "I'm not a sentimental tool like you. There's nothing in  _my_  closet." He gave Wilson an exaggerated wink.

"Gee, ouch." Wilson rolled his eyes and ate another bite of burger.

"So, on a scale of one to ten, how mad was Cuddy?" House shoveled more fries and burger into his mouth.

Wilson hesitated a moment, thinking. "I'd say definitely more than a five, more than halfway to spontaneous combustion. A six, maybe a seven-" He jumped when House slapped the table hard with his palm.

"HAHAHA! Spontaneous combustion!" His laugh was loud, and it was fake, but it didn't matter because he let the words come out along with the food he'd just chewed. It immediately fell straight down onto the sweater-hamburger, cheese and fries, masticated just enough to make them a greasy mess.

" _Dammit!"_  Wilson jumped up and pulled House's tray away. "I should have known!"

"What? I don't laugh at your jokes all that often." House put on an innocent expression. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Give me that sweater!"

House leaned back and let the food move down a bit more. He looked down at himself and gasped. "Oh no! Sorry!" He grabbed a napkin and began rubbing everything in hard, scrubbing at it.

" _STOP!_ " Wilson's anguished cry reverberated through the cafeteria. Everyone else fell silent for a few moments. "Give it to me before-before you ruin it completely!"

House paused. "What-now you want me to take it off? I'm not a stripper, James."

"Yes! I-I mean take it off!" Wilson snapped.

"As you wish." Fully aware that they had half the cafeteria as an audience by now, House levered himself out of the booth, stretched and pulled off the sweater together with his t-shirt. "If you wanted to see me naked, you could've just said so, honey. No need to go to such lengths." He handed both items to Wilson.

"You can keep that t-shirt!"

"But it's stained too, see!" House put on an extra fussy tone. Everyone around them was staring. Wilson looked a little flustered. "It'll get set in the fabric and I'll never be able to wash it out-"

"As if you've ever cared about a stain in your life," Wilson hissed and snatched the t-shirt. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't even think about going anywhere." He glared at House. "And don't bitch because you have to wear a damp sweater. You brought it on yourself!"

House pulled on his shirt while he watched Wilson storm off, then sat down again, took Wilson's tray, finished the burger and washed everything down with his friend's drink. As he munched, he took a small pill from his pocket and casually popped it into his own cup as he reached for fries from Wilson's side. It would be dissolved by the time Jimmy returned, and while it might make the soda a bit flat, he didn't think the other man would notice.

Wilson returned fifteen minutes later, both garments in hand. "Here." He put the clothing next to him on the bench and sat down, looked at his empty plate. " _Nice_."

House ignored the quip and looked pointedly at his watch. "What time does this thing start anyway? I thought maybe you would've changed into your finery already."

"I'd planned to have some dinner first. Something more than a taste of my burger." Wilson reached over and took half the fries from House's plate. "You owe me a steak dinner after this."

"I don't owe you jack shit." House made his tone surly because Wilson expected it, and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man relax just a bit as he began to eat. "You created the situation to get revenge, you've got your reward."

"Not quite yet." Wilson munched a fry and made a bit of a face. "Kinda salty."

"I like my fries like I like my women." House had oversalted them as a precaution, in case he needed an extra incentive for Wilson to find his thirst and quench it.

Wilson snorted and reached for his drink, then paused. "Give me yours."

House gave a gusty sigh and rolled his eyes. "It's got backwash. You really don't want it." A show of reluctance would reduce suspicion.

"And mine's got some drug in it. No thanks."

House pretended to hesitate, then slowly pushed his drink across. "Knock yourself out." He made a point of not watching Wilson drink, but out of his peripheral vision he saw at least three good swallows. That was more than enough to take care of business later on.

"Okay, that will have to be good enough for now." Wilson wiped his mouth on a napkin and stacked the trays together. "No doubt Cuddy's had this thing catered, so there will be finger food at least."

"Whatever." House knew he sounded like a sullen teenager. Wilson shook his head and got to his feet as he gathered up the sweater and t-shirt.

"You brought this on yourself. Stop pouting. Time for me to get dressed. You too. Let's go."

The ride up to Wilson's office was silent; both of them watched the numbers on the display and avoided each other's gaze. It didn't take long to unlock the office door and turn on a light.

"By the way," Wilson tossed House the sweater, then turned back before disappearing into the bathroom. "You're paying for the cab to the event. I'm not playing chauffeur. I want to enjoy myself."

_Oh, you will_. Aloud House said, "I don't have cash on me." He used the same petulant voice as before.

"Most cabs take cards now. Goes to show how long you haven't paid for one. No weaseling out of this, House."

Once Wilson was out of sight, House allowed himself a small smile as he pulled on the damn sweater. So far, so good. He'd have to stay vigilant; one misstep and Wilson would know what he'd planned. But the caffeine he'd ingested earlier had helped clear his tired brain a bit. He'd be functional till mid-event, at least. By then it wouldn't matter if he fucked up.

Wilson soon reappeared, neatly dressed and his hair straightened. His face was just a little bit flushed. House was relieved. He didn't want the fun to start too early.

"Kinda warm up here." He looked House over.

"You're not the one wearing a thick, scratchy sweater, stop bitching." He made a big deal of tugging at the neck. Wilson chuckled and picked up his top coat.

"Too bad. You get the cab?" House nodded. "Let's go."


	7. Chapter 7

When they reached the hotel, the foyer was packed with people. As House shoved his card at the cabbie, Wilson opened the door and stepped out. He gave House a keen look, shook his head and moved aside to allow exit. Together they made their way up the steps to the doors, and into the party.

It was one of the biggest hotels in town with a massive lobby, but still you couldn't miss the fundraiser. The whole place was decked out in Christmas colours and featured PPTH banners, posters and info stalls - probably not manned by volunteers but people who had gotten on the wrong side of Cuddy too, judging by their faces.

House had a long-standing, deep-seated aversion to these glitzy, schmoozy affairs where everyone wore their Sunday best, put on their smiliest face and attempted to talk other people - who all tried to look more important than they were - out of their not so hard-earned money. He felt genuinely uncomfortable at events like this because they were in stark contrast to what he believed in. Not what you did mattered here, but who you were or appeared to be. Not actions, but words and bank balances and smiles and glitter.

Wilson, on the other hand, was in his element as these functions, House knew from experience, and Cuddy liked to have her boy-wonder oncologist there for support and to charm rich ladies out of funds. That just might change tonight.

They stopped inside the doors and surveyed the crowds before them. House took the bottle from his pocket and popped two Vicodin, ignoring Wilson as the other man tugged at his collar a bit and muttered: "Warm in here." He didn't seem to realize he'd already said it. House hid a smile. Everything was progressing nicely.

"Stop complaining. Let's just get this over with." He moved toward the bar, to be stopped by Cuddy. She appeared in front of him like a figure from a bad dream, though she filled out her couture dress very nicely.

"Why the hell are you wearing that abomination?" She glared at him.

"Now now, Cuddy. I'm not questioning your dress choice either." House pointedly looked her over. Actually, she looked pretty hot, with her dark hair up in elaborate curls and diamond-drop earrings to complement a simple bracelet. She was elegant, though he'd never say so.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes, House." Her tone was icy. " _What is this?_ "

House gestured at Wilson. "Blackmail."

"He deserves it," Wilson chipped in. "His aunt died and sent it to him." He frowned. "No, I mean-"

"I don't care!" Cuddy looked as if she'd bitten into something nasty. "Just do your jobs and get people donating." She flitted off toward a knot of prosperous-looking people. Wilson shook his head. House resumed his journey to the bar. He'd just reached it when someone whispered in his ear.

"Great sweater, Greg."

He'd know that voice anywhere. Pain, regret, anger, embarrassment chased through him in quick succession before he turned to face Stacy. She smiled back at him, her dark eyes full of amusement and something like sadness, though she was careful to hide it. He saw it all the same.

"Stacy." He leaned back against the bar and made no attempt to hide the sweater-what would be the point? "You're quite a distance from Short Hills."

"I was invited." She turned her head. "Two whiskeys please," she told the bartender and glanced at House with one brow raised. He nodded; of course she would remember his preferences. "So Aunt Mabel's still knitting presents for you."

"Kinda hard since she kicked the bucket." House watched Wilson without seeming to. "This is the last one, here's hoping."

"And you decided to wear it tonight in her honor. How sweet." Stacy chuckled. "It was worth the drive to see this."

That stung, though she probably hadn't meant it as a slap at him. "Thanks."

Her expression softened a bit. "Give me a little credit, Greg. I know you wouldn't even be here unless you were coerced into it. And as for you wearing this thing… that has James written all over it. I look forward to whatever revenge you've got planned." She accepted the whiskeys and handed him one. "I have no doubt it'll be epic."

House took the drink. Without speaking he clinked his glass to hers, then downed the shot just as the sound of raised voices came from a short distance away. This time he let his smile show just a bit. "Here we go," he said softly. Stacy glanced toward to source of the noise. Her eyes widened.

"Shall we investigate?" Her sly smile tugged at his heart, but only for a moment. He set aside the inevitable longing that touched him, and offered his arm.

"We shall."

By the time they reached the group with Wilson in it, the argument in progress had grown louder.

"I most certainly was  _not_  hitting on your wife!" Wilson's face was flushed, and his bowtie sat slightly crooked above his pristine white shirt. "I-I-I wouldn't do anything like that here! I mean-" He passed a hand over his hair, ruffling it. "I just wouldn't!"

"That's not what I've heard," someone said from the back of the crowd. A ripple of laughter went around, and Wilson's flush deepened.

"Besides," he muttered into his glass, "she's well past it."

Someone behind them gasped. Only people close enough would have heard Wilson's remark, but that was enough for a game of Chinese Whispers to start.

"You hit on her and you think she's not worth your time?" The husband of the woman in question moved to stand directly in front of Wilson. "She's too old for you, but you can still cop a feel? What kind of hospital are you running here?!"

"No! I mean yes!" Wilson put up his free hand in a placating gesture. "Your wife is a lovely woman, I'm sure-"

"What did you give him?" Stacy pulled House back a few steps-just in time because Cuddy was approaching. House put a finger to his lips and grinned. He wasn't going to divulge his secret with Cuddy within earshot.

"Doctor Wilson!" Cuddy's sharp tone silenced everyone for a few moments. She offered a wide smile to the husband. "Geoff, I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding. Doctor Wilson is the head of our oncology department and a strong supporter of our donor programs. He would be delighted to show you around whenever you'd like to pay a visit . . ." She sent Wilson a warning glare, put a hand on the man's shoulder and turned him away.

"You know, you are mean as hell. The sweater is not  _that_ bad." Stacy finished her whiskey and chuckled.

"This is just the first shot in the jailhouse revolution." House took her glass. "Be right back." He limped off to the bar to get two more whiskies, only to be accosted by Wilson.

" _House!_ What the  _FUCK!_ " The angry hiss could be heard clear to the doors. House pretended to wipe his cheek.

"Jeez, Wilson. I took a shower this morning, thanks."

"You-you DOSED me!" Wilson lowered his tone, but his glare was full intensity, if a bit unfocused. "Dammit, you son of a  _bitch_!"

House leaned against the bar. "Technically no, I didn't. You dosed yourself. I told you to knock yourself out if you recall. And that is becaaaaaaause . . ." He paused. "You had it coming. You overplayed your hand and pissed me off."

Wilson gaped at him, caught off his stride. "I-what?"

"You got cocky. And I mean that in every sense of the word." House hooked his cane over his arm and accepted the drinks from the bartender. "Put this on Doctor Wilson's tab."

"Cash only," the barkeep informed him. House glanced at Wilson and shrugged a bit.

"You heard him." He turned and walked back to Stacy, who stood with folded arms and raised brows, her dark eyes bright with wry humor. House handed her a whiskey.

"He won't forget this, you know," she said.

House took a sip of his drink. "Oh, but he will. The good thing is, tomorrow morning he'll just have a very sore head and a fuzzy brain. He'll probably figure out something went down, though. I'm sure Cuddy will remind him."

"You know, at times you really are an evil genius." There was more than a bit of amusement in her voice.

"He started it. Besides, I didn't make him choose that old bat. There are plenty of better options here tonight."

Stacy drank some whiskey and looked towards the crowds. "Definitely. You should go and put your feelers out."

"Not in this sweater, I don't stand a chance. Not on a first impression anyway."

"Oh, I don't know. Give you a paintball gun and you make unforgettable impressions." Stacy offered him a saucy smile. House snorted and hid a reciprocal grin.

"What I wouldn't give for one of those right now." He glanced out over the crowd. "Dayglo orange and neon green would improve this wake immensely."

"I think turning Wilson's id loose on everyone is entertainment enough." Stacy laughed softly as they watched Wilson weave towards a group of what House thought were surgical residents. "Look at the man. He has no idea what to do with himself."

"He'll figure it out."

"Aren't you a little worried he'll start taking off his clothes?"

"Nah, that's mostly with alcohol." He polished off his shot. "Though there are no guarantees. I suspect Cuddy will swoop in soon enough . . . ah, thought so. There she is."

Cuddy had one slender arm around Wilson's shoulders, steering him away from the younger people and in House's general direction. Stacy gave House a little nudge. "His hand is right on her ass," she said softly. "Oh my  _god_ , Greg."

"I love it when a plan comes together." He raised a brow as Cuddy stopped in front of him. "Problems, oh Exalted Director of the House of Spittle?"

"I don't know what you did," Cuddy said through gritted teeth, "but you get him out of here and sober him up before tomorrow because he is  _not_  getting a day off for a hangover, do I make myself clear?"

"Ma'am yes ma'am, clear as crystal ma'am!" House saluted her with the whiskey. Cuddy's expression darkened. She shoved Wilson at him and stalked off, outrage in every line of her body. Stacy shook her head and moved away from Wilson's hand as he reached out for her.

"Uh uh, you're not groping  _me_." She collected House's empty glass and leaned in to brush a light kiss over his cheek. "Promise to let me know how this ends." At his nod, she gave him a final smile and moved off into the crowd. House watched her until she was gone from sight. After a few moments, he sighed softly.

"Why's she leaving?" Wilson wanted to know. House rolled his eyes.

"Never you mind, Dipsy. We're going home."

"Di-Dipsy? Who-?"

House snorted. "Forget it. Home now, google later."

Wilson stopped short. "But we just got here!"

"Oh, shut up." House wrapped an arm around Wilson's waist. "Cab's waiting, genius. Let's go."


	8. Chapter 8

Having Cuddy standing in front of his desk first thing on Monday morning was not how James liked his week to start, not after the weekend he'd had. Especially when it was abundantly clear she was steaming mad, at him in particular.

" _You_ ," she pointed at him, "have some explaining to do. Quite a lot of explaining. You can start with those photos."

It was not what he had expected, and he didn't have the first idea what she was talking about. "Ummm…" You could never be sure if feigning ignorance - or the real thing, in his case - was a good move with Cuddy or not. It could make matters worse. But since he had no idea what those matters even were he didn't really have a choice. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."

Of course, she wouldn't believe him. Between himself and House, she must have heard those words well over a hundred times last year alone.

Cuddy glared at him. "Don't play innocent here, James. I don't think you would've come up with this all by yourself, I'm sure it was the two of you." He should be taking offence at this but it was safer not to, not when Cuddy was on the warpath and he didn't even know what had set her off. "Nobody has seen House yet today, so you're my first port of call."

House was never in early, that wasn't surprising. "I haven't seen him either since Friday . . . I  _think_ it was Friday." That was slightly unusual, though. A weekend without House was nearly unheard of. "I just got a couple of texts from him on Saturday and Sunday."

_("Hope you're OK after Friday night."_

" _Should've stayed away from the mixers.")_

Nothing specific, nothing that told him what had happened.

There was a brief, ominous silence. Then Cuddy folded her arms and leaned forward just a bit. "You know, I don't care when or where you see House. You can spend all weekend with each other if that's what you want. I want to know how those photos got up on the hospital website!"

Photos again. Of what? Or whom? James didn't know the first thing about them. All he knew was that he had woken up late Saturday morning face down in his bed, fully dressed, with a headache that wouldn't even respond to double his normal hangover dose of painkillers. There was an aftertaste of curry in his mouth he couldn't get rid of despite ten minutes of brushing plus mouthwash. It had taken two mugs of strong coffee for him to be able to see clearly. Later, he had found his coat tossed carelessly over a chair and his wallet in the middle of the table - open, but nothing missing. It had taken him a further two hours to come up with the idea of checking his bank account where he discovered that he had spent a considerable amount of money with a taxi company as well as made a big purchase at Varsity Liquors. But at no point had he found any photos anywhere.

"I'm waiting, James. Who uploaded those photos?"

"I didn't take any photos," was all he could come up with in reply. He felt stupid.

Cuddy shook her head. "I didn't ask who took them. I don't  _care_ who took them, and it's clear that you didn't because you're in them."

She reached across his desk and pulled over his laptop, tapped a few keys and turned the computer back so he could see the screen. He looked right at the hospital's own website, subsection ' _Events'_.

"Go on, have a look at the album for ' _Winter Gala Fundraiser'_." Cuddy nodded at him. "Go on!"

James was afraid of what he was going to find if he did look, but it didn't seem like he had much choice. It was Monday morning, he'd had a bad weekend, and Cuddy was yelling. So he clicked on the fundraiser link and scrolled through the photos.

And, sure enough, there he was. In between a very attractive redhead in a black off-shoulder gown and a lady wearing more jewelry than her thin neck seemed to be able to support was a very flushed face-his own, with sweat beading on his forehead and a slightly crazy grin, bowtie askew underneath it all.

He scrolled on, past shots of more people in their finery, men in tuxes and women in couture gowns, until he hit the last photo - a hand on silky, ruby-colored fabric. Tightly stretched, curved fabric.

"Yes, that's right, take a good look," Cuddy hissed. "That's your hand."

_His_ hand? James squinted at the screen. Just the edge of a watch was visible, and yes, it could have been his. Okay, that  _was_ probably his hand. He shrugged.

"Don't you dare blow this off!" Cuddy's voice rose so high he began to worry about the windows. "Don't you dare act like this isn't your hand on my butt for everyone to see! Everyone noticed the dress I wore Friday night, and this can _not_  have been anyone else's behind."

"Uh… what… your butt?" He was honestly confused and determined not to chuckle. Cuddy had said 'butt'. This was worrying. Not only could he not remember having his hands on Cuddy's behind - which was a pity really - but he couldn't even remember attending this fundraiser. "When, um, when did you say this was?"

Cuddy stared at him. "You know, I was willing to cut you a little slack for not coming in the next morning when I said you couldn't take a day off. Well, I'm over it. You owe me twenty clinic hours this month. And that is non-negotiable."

James watched her slam out of the office, sighed and wished he had another coffee at hand. It promised to be a long and miserable day, and he needed all the help he could get.

He waited until after the take-in round to confront House, who had deigned to come in at last just after noon.

"Hey Wilson." House sipped his coffee and offered raised brows and a wide smile. "Happy Monday."

"You dosed me, you miserable bastard." It took everything in him not to land a punch in that smug face. "And you made me the laughing stock of the whole hospital!"

"Of course I did." House tipped back his chair and regarded James with faint amusement. "You had it coming. I told you so."

James took a breath, let it out. It felt as if he couldn't hang onto conversations today; nothing anyone said made sense. "Enlighten me."

"I did to you what you wanted to do to me." When James said nothing, House sighed. "Humiliaaaaation."

"All this-over one sweater?"

" _No_." House sat up and set his coffee on the desk. Now his bright gaze held both anger and hurt, James noted with some surprise. "You don't get it. You wanted to pay me back for what I did with those cookies-fair enough. But you started piling on, and you didn't know when to stop. Sometimes you-" He fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice held that familiar mocking tone that set James's teeth on edge. "It's a very unattractive trait. Women don't like it, you know."

James sorted this out and felt a sort of distant astonishment. "You never said anything before."

"Hah. So you know I'm right."

"I'm not-oh, fuck it. I don't want to argue with you about this." He hesitated. "Maybe . . . maybe you're right. Maybe. Sometimes. But you're enough to drive a saint insane, you do know that."

House snorted. "How many clinic hours did she give you?"

"Twenty."

" _Shit_. She'll double that for me, at least." House finished off his coffee and stood. "Let's go hide in the cafeteria. She'll never find us there and you can buy me some lunch. Win-win."

"I think you owe  _me_  lunch after spending two hundred bucks at Varsity. And that cab ride home. The cabbie must have gone to Manhattan and back for the price I paid." Despite his words, James resigned himself to buying two lunches, as usual.

They headed out the door and towards the elevators.

On the ping of an opening door, House said, "Next party is at my place, by the way. I was lucky to acquire a nice stash of booze the other day."

James gave him an appraising stare. "Only if it involves unopened bottles and plenty of pretzels."

"Nachos. Pretzels are so 1956."

There was a little silence. "Yeah, okay. But if you dump cheese on your shirt, you're cleaning it yourself."

House nodded. "Done."


End file.
